‘Delightful are those forests where the worldly fail to find delight. There the Arahats are happy, looking for no sensual pleasures.’

‘Delightful are those forests…’

There is a general recognition that trees play a vital role in the health of our planet. They filter air pollution. They build up soil. They soak up storm water and reduce flooding. They provide shade. They help mitigate global warming. They create habitats for insects, birds and animals.

A walk in the forest has been shown to improve our well-being. Such walks offer many opportunities for Zen training and practice, so it is not surprising that we are encouraged to cherish them.

‘…where the worldly fail to find delight.’

For many years, an ancient sycamore tree grew beside Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland. Loved by both locals and visitors, it caused shock waves around the world when it was secretly felled one night. While we may not commit such acts ourselves, we can still take things like trees for granted.

A neighbour once remarked that he had cut down all the trees in his back garden because they were ‘messy’. More recently, a desire to keep our front garden borders tidy turned to irritation as the autumn leaves gathered daily among the plants.

Traditionally, sweeping leaves is considered an important practice for Zen monks. Efforts have always been made to preserve a sense of order and calm by keeping the grounds of a temple tidy. However, an artificial impression is discouraged. The sixteenth-century Tea Master Rikyū always stipulated that leaves should be swept a few hours before a guest was expected. If fresh leaves were to fall in the period between the end of sweeping and the guest’s arrival, they should be left where they lay.

This rule points to the importance of appreciating that the forces of nature are far more in control than ‘I’ can ever be. When we have emptied out ‘my’ ideal picture of a perfect garden, it becomes possible to admire the patterns that the wind has fashioned from the fallen leaves. When we attempt to impose our own will, we behave like ‘the worldly’ mentioned in this verse, who fail to find delight. We fail to find delight because we are full of our own ambitions.

The following story was told by the Chinese sage Chuang-Tzu.

In China there were many earth altars made of stone. Local people would make sacrifices on these altars to the gods. Growing in a field next to one of them was a huge and ancient oak tree.

One day, an itinerant carpenter and his apprentice came across the oak. The apprentice looked at the tree and expressed admiration for it, but the carpenter dismissed his praise, saying that the tree was completely useless. If you attempted to build a ship from its wood it would soon rot, and if you tried to make tools from it they would quickly disintegrate. The reason the tree had lived so long, he claimed, was that it bore no fruit and that nothing practical could be made from it.

That night, when the carpenter fell asleep, the old oak tree appeared to him in a dream. The oak asked the carpenter why he had compared it to trees cultivated for human purposes. The tree pointed out that an apple or pear tree is always in danger of attack, as people often climb and break its branches in order to gather fruit. In this way such trees are damaged and destroyed.

The tree explained that it had always attempted to be completely useless. It had no ambition to be anything. Because of this, its growth had been assured and it had been able to protect the altar of the gods.

‘There the Arahats are happy, looking for no sensual pleasures.’

Like the oak tree in the story, an Arahat has completely emptied out craving, ambition and striving. Many monks follow the ancient forest-dwelling tradition of Buddhist meditation. Ajahn Chah and his followers lived in cobra-infested jungles. They lived in an environment in which craving and fear were constant companions. There was little food, the danger of wild animals, limited shelter and relentless swarms of mosquitoes.

In order to make it through such training, the monk’s desire for comfort and sensual pleasures must be faced and endured, gradually transformed into the peace, harmony and compassion of Buddha Nature. With ‘me’ burned away, the monk becomes one with all the life of the forest. There is no separation.

Over the years, the trees in our close have flourished. Their branches appear to hold hands above our heads. In the autumn sunshine they form a glittering canopy of crimson and gold. Walking wholeheartedly towards the front door, the heart dances with the twirling, falling leaves.